Sad at Me
by Tsadde
Summary: When Sherlock stood over the edge, the wind, the world, the pavement so far below his feet, everything lost its color. A brief piece on the thoughts and emotions that whirled about before he did. Spoilers for Reichenback Fall.


Sad at Me

by Tsadde

_Author's Note: The song this was inspired by, What If, is by the band SafetySuit. I dare you to listen to this and not find it fitting to that terrible, wonderful, heart-wrenching finale._

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><p><em>And what if it makes you sad at me?<em>

_What if makes you laugh now, but you cry as you fall asleep?_

_And what if it takes your breath and you can't hardly breathe?_

_And what if it makes the last sound be the very best sound?_

_What if what I want makes you sad at me?_

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><p>When Sherlock stood over the edge, watching the whirling dance of ignorant civilians scurrying across the pavement he would soon meet, everything lost its color. It was as if a sheet of monochrome had fallen over his eyes and drained the life out of everything around him as he teeter-tottered over that far-too-small ledge. The consulting detective always prided himself as a man of logic, infallible and coherent. He was not accustomed to the stirring of the soul, not self-indulgent enough to allow himself to linger on the ghost of emotions that weakly arose in the furthermost corners of his soul. He was not a poet, he was not a romantic. He was a man of truths and facts. There was no variable for emotions, no space for sentiment- there was only arithmetic, what he could see with his own eyes, prove with universal laws. But, on that edge, something happened- the cold breeze whispered tenderly against his feet, trespassing the now evident thinness of his shoes and freezing him from the bottom up. Standing there, above it all, ready to plunge, the numbers faded. The vocabulary was lost. All that existed was the plain and present thoughts that came before death. He was no longer Sherlock Holmes, the genius, the mad detective, the internet phenomena. He was simply a man, a young man, ready to plummet to his fall.<p>

If he were to be perfectly honest with himself, Sherlock could not feign even a hint of shock at his position. This was a deduction he had already made, an inference he had established, a possibility he had already thought through. It was so like Moriarty, that fiend, to leave him to his own devices in an ultimate, climactic ending. How horrendous- how horribly poetic of him. Jim was a storyteller until the very end and then some. But now his plans had come to fruition, and Sherlock was forced to face the iciness of reality. Ironic, really- how thinking about the fall felt so different from actually facing it. One could plan and tow away, let the thought linger in your head, let the plan tumble and melt in your mouth. But to face it- to hear the metallic roar of a bullet, to sense the rushing wind swirl about you as your legs trembled and begged to buckle beneath you- that was another thing entirely.

And this was not meant to be so damn emotional. That wasn't part of the plan. The crack in his voice, the sound of tears choking their way out, were notes that the composer had not written, had not planned. They had no place in the conduction- but like a benevolent fool, beating away to a tune gone awry, the misplaced sounds where there. Sherlock had calculated and planned for this, set up his pawns in their positions and everything was prepared so that he could carry out this final problem- facing, fighting, feigning death. His physical survival was assured. But, alas, the turmoil was still there. Still choking him. The proof was clear.

_'All lives end. All hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage,'_ he had been taught; But here was the betrayal of his words crashing against the honesty of his actions. Behind the snide comments, behind the cold distance he so often tried to make, behind the mantra he would repeat endlessly in his head, here he was- Fearing. Caring. Feeling.

Fearing because he was pressing closer and closer to the final chapter, the last lines before the end. Fearing because after this he would be no more. Caring because he never thought death could become so terrible a thing for a person like him, who never had anything to lose or to leave behind. Fearing because that was no longer true. Because now he had something he wanted to cling on to. Something he didn't want to lose. Something he didn't deserve, couldn't fathom, but wouldn't let go of for any force, any cause in the world- his only companion, his only friend, his only lifeline. Feeling because the phone was heavy in his hands and the wind was picking up. Feeling because perhaps this was the last moment that he had to keep John's hope, admiration, respect to himself. Because, perhaps, after this, John would believe his lies, too. Perhaps he would doubt, and believe, and despise and forget.

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><p><em>What if it makes you lose faith in me,<em>

_what if it makes you question every moment you cannot see?_

_And what if it makes you crash and you can't find the key?_

_What if it makes you ask how you could let it all go?_

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><p>He did not doubt that the pain would pass for him, that man. John would live past this moment. The horror in his voice, Sherlock told himself, would just be temporary side affect. Just a fleeting sweep of emotion. The genius wondered for an instant if the doctor knew that it was he who was dependent on the other, that the consultant's connection to the world existed only through the veteran, that the amazing one was not the crime-solver, but the hero, the medical man, the selfless friend with the golden heart. The doctor, who had seen death and violence and fear, would go on living, with or without him. John was not like him, who lived life in a vacant blur, dependent one high, one problem, one stirring of the mind, to next so he could feel alive- he lived before Holmes, and he would live just as well afterward. He had family. He had friends. He had a job. And he would continue to have them. And he would move out from that estranged home- And perhaps he'd get married. Dedicate the rest of his life to a woman, any woman, in the midst of grief. Live his life with her- not entirely out of love, perhaps, but more out of dependency, companionship. Because she, whoever she would be, would silence the nightmares, make him forget, dull the past- for an hour or two at least. And that would be enough.<p>

He'd move on. He'd forget- and, secretly (for the tall, lanky man would not admit it even to himself), that was the most frightening thing of all. Because being forgotten by everything that counted is terrifying. Because breathing does not mean he is alive if he remains dead to the only person that mattered. But that excuriciating pain would have to be carried, burdened upon his back, because the detective _knew_. He knew the rational- he knew why he was standing on the ledge, readying himself to jump. He knew how sniper guns worked, how aim maneuvered, how easily the breathe could be knocked clean out of the flesh. For a moment, he closed his eyes- took a shaky breath, the coldest inhale he had ever taken, and he listed the reasons. Mrs. Hudson, who was endlessly kind, occasionally a nag, always a blessing. Lestrade, a man who was clueless, guilable, a complete wreck, but with whom existed no malice nor resentment. Just admiration, acceptance, and understanding- the tolerance Sherlock needed so he could move and thrive in the grotesque. Molly, that delicate, gentle woman, willing to help, willing to please, far too ignorant of her own self-worth. And then there was John. He could not find the words for him, could not form them, could not share them, if he tried.

Once Sherlock was a supposed dead man, John would no longer be a part to a pair. He'd have no value to the estranged minds that wrecked lives and destroyed the light of heart. No one would stop him on his way to the market. No one would read the blog. No one would ask questions. He would live on, without the snipers, without the criminals, without the black cars following him down lonely, midnight streets.

When the phone began to tone, ring as it called, he did not notice he was holding his breath.

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><p><em>And if this be our last conversation-<em>

_If this be the last time that we speak for a while_

_Don't lose hope and don't let go_

_Cause you should know-_

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><p>And he did not notice that his friend's words were the only thing that were occupying his mind for a single moment. For a single instant, all in rush, his mind lost focus- dropped the present, dominating thought of how to stick the landing, how to hide, how to coordinate. There was a single moment of complete and utter attention to the voice on the other end.<br>"Hello?"

"Sherlock- oh, God, what's going on?"

"What?"

"Why are you saying this?"

"Sherlock-"

"Okay, shut up, Sherlock, shut up. The first time we met, the first time we met-"

"Stop it now."

Ah, the focus is back. There is a plan to execute. There are things that need to be done. Indulging can only last so long.

"Keep your eyes fixed on me, please will you do this for me?" He collects himself. Can one sentence capture everything he wants to convey? He forces the words out, the phrase that was nestled in the abyss of his mind, ready to be spoken. Why is his face cool, cold, freezing? Why is it wet? "This phone call-" he hears himself say, "it's my note. That's what people do, don't they? Leave a note."

"Leave a note when?"

"Goodbye, John."

"No, don't-"

He presses the button. He ends the call. He bids his only friend goodbye. The phone hits the ground behind him with a crack. Everything is silent, and everything is done, and nothing is left but this. But now. But the air and the falling and the crashing down. _No,_ he corrects himself, _no, there's still something._ He can't bear to look beyond the distant ground below him. Not to where _he_ is. Not to see him run, shout, try in vain. _No, there's still one thing._ There's a noise, buried deep within him, sounding. Silently at first, but growing louder. Growing shriller. The beating, pulsating metronome that sounded behind a cage of flesh and bone in his chest. There is still one thing, and if he cannot do anything else, he does this. He leaves it. He gives it to him, in secret. That beating thing. That sounding thing. That nuisance. The blind thing. That feeling thing. The bit of him the Doctor resuscitated. The fragment of humanity the soldier found buried under rubble.

Sherlock cannot leave him with the proof. Cannot leave him with the answers. Cannot leave him with the plan. But he can leave him this. This one thing.

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><p><em>That if it makes you sad at me,<em>

_Then it's all my fault and let me fix it, please-_

_'Cause you know that I'm always all for you_.

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><p>Because the happiness he had, the endless gratitude he will always hold, his heart, at least, doesn't have to crack when it meets the concrete.<p>

Fin

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><p>Authors Note: My come-back to took the form of Sherlock angst, how depressing! Either way, this is just an emotional bit I felt like writing on an impulse, my first fanfiction in ages, and my first attempt at a Sherlock piece. I beg your forgiveness if I made Sherlock terribly out of character, though I did want to write through an emotional, fragile voice we never hear or see in the series. Please do tell me what you think about this (getting embarrassed already, haha!).<p>

Sherlock, by the way, in no way belongs to me. This belongs to the amazing writers who made this show possible and oh-so-loveable, Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss.


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